


Once in a Blue Moon

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Voodoo, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: Greg's day was already shitty enough with Sherlock bossing him around, but then he falls down a hole and breaks his phone. But wait, it gets better: there's a wolf howling at the moon. A full moon.





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

 

Greg cursed as he stubbed his toe on a rock that had no business being there. He picked the damn thing up and hurled it into the unkempt bushes surrounding the small dilapidated house just to relieve some of the stress that had been building up since Sherlock told him to get better pictures of the bloody floorboards, because Anderson had not taken any close-ups of the bloody things, and of course, Sherlock needed them right now because it couldn't wait until the bloody morning, so it was up to him to do all the legwork for the lazy ponce. Never matter that Greg was so deep in overtime, he’d been wearing the same clothes for two days straight and would probably fall asleep if he blinked a second too long. Who cared? He was just a worn out, divorced copper, with a sociopath of a drama queen as his only friend. And even calling him “friend” was a bit if a stretch. Greg was actually kind of pathetic if he thought about it... which is exactly why he buried himself in work in the first place.

Besides, the case involved a child, so he couldn’t very well say no, and he felt too guilty returning home when the poor kid was still out there somewhere. Greg pushed the yellow police tape aside and opened the door to the house, weary that it would fall down on his head at the smallest gust of wind. The ominous creak of the door gave him pause, but the old building held fast, and he took a step in, swiping his torch all around him out of habit to clear the area, although he seriously doubted anyone would venture in this old ruin. The place could be used as a haunted house, complete with spiderwebs, no additional Halloween decoration needed. Once into what had been a living room, a long, long time ago, Greg searched for the spot Sherlock was so interested in, right beneath the rusted chandelier, then knelt, doing his best to keep the torch directed there with one hand and take a picture with his other before he found himself momentarily blinded by the flash. Blinking away the spots dancing in front of his eyes, he checked the picture very minutely. Sherlock was a bit finicky about the quality of pictures, to say the least, and he’d be damned if the madman sent him back here in a few hours for a better picture. This one looked fine to him, and he doubted he'd manage any better, not in these conditions. He was about to send it off after typing a snide remark when he felt a lurch beneath his feet, as if the whole building was hiccuping, and before he knew it, Greg was crashing down into the dark in a deafening cacophony of creaks and whines.

The house had swallowed him after all.

He coughed, feeling like dust covered him inside and out. It was as dark as a grave down here and both his torch and phone were MIA, but if he had to venture a guess, he'd say the feeble glow from up ahead was a fair clue that both his tools had somehow escaped the fall where he had not.

“Just fan-fucking-tastic,” Greg muttered and then coughed again at the dust tickling the back of his throat.

Could be worse. He wasn’t hurt too badly, except for a bruised bum and an equally bruised ego. He'd actually been damn lucky, considering, but mostly he thanked God he’d managed to take a picture of the bloody floorboards before he’d unintentionally destroyed the evidence. He was going to get an earful for that from the Super. He could just picture the man's red face with spittle flying through the air as he shouts abuse at him. It was not going to be pretty. That man was way too easy to anger, but admittedly, Greg did get into more trouble than most DIs.  Maybe he should stay in this godforsaken hole after all… 

But once the shock of falling through the floor had worn off, Greg pushed himself up, intent on finding a way out, and sooner rather than later. He froze and winced at the aches shooting up his body. Maybe he'd gotten more hurt than he realized. Honestly, he was getting too old for this shit. It only took a few minutes to explore the small cellar, and all he found was a staircase missing half its steps. He had to give up on that exit after he fell through the rotten wood for the second time, but only because there weren’t enough steps to rally the surface anymore. Unless he sprouted wings, he was well and truly stuck. 

Greg let himself slide down to the cold cellar floor, staring up through the hole. His eyes had gotten used to the dark by now and he could make out more of his surroundings. He could even see the moonlight shining bright through the windows upstairs and through a small hole in the ceiling two floors up. It had to be a full moon and the sky was so clear, it cast a blue hue on everything. It also meant it was colder than usual. Shivering, he made a mental note to tear this rotten shithole down once the investigation was closed, because it was little more than a deathtrap. Maybe he should leave Sherlock a derogatory note in case they found his body down here. He could scratch insults in the stone walls with his fingernails, that would be properly dramatic for the twat. But no, someone was bound to find him before it came to that… Fuck, maybe not. Only Sherlock knew he was here and he wasn’t the sort to worry about other people’s whereabouts. No use calling for help as there was no neighbours around this godforsaken place. He wasn’t even sure his fellow Yarders would worry before well into the next day, and they had no reason to come checking this place out again. Fuck, fuckity, fuck.

Greg pushed himself up again. Sitting down felt like admitting defeat. Besides, it was damp and cold in the cellar, and the late hour was making it worse, so he paced around the empty cellar to keep himself warm. He was deep in thought, alternatively cursing Sherlock and thinking about the case, when he thought he heard something… unusual. He stopped and held his breath as he tilted his head...there! A low, sorrowful howl, the sound drawn out, long and beautiful. He had no idea dogs could howl like that? Did they? Greg frowned. Although there were any number of dogs in the city, he couldn’t ever remember having heard such a sound before, not in real life, only on the telly.

Greg chuckled, berating himself at the impossibility: there were no wolves anywhere in, or near London. He wasn't even sure there were any in the whole country. His mind was just playing tricks on him, seeing the full moon, making ridiculous associations. Sherlock would no doubt say as much if he told him about it. Greg resumed his pacing, rubbing his arms that were starting to erupt in goosebumps. Because of the cold.  _ Not _ because of imaginary wolves.

Then, he stilled again, listening intently. There was movement upstairs.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Hello? Someone up there? I fell through the floor, be careful! Hello?”

There was no answer so Greg stepped right under the hole in the feeble halo of light, then peered up to check if he could see anyone. It couldn’t have been a rat, or even a cat. It had to be someone, heavy enough to make the ancient floorboards creak. More movement. Greg waited patiently and then all the blood drained from his face when the outline of a huge wolf appeared: larger than any dog he'd ever seen, with pointy ears and thick fur. Greg stepped back, slowly, trying to disappear into the shadows but that beast had to know he was down there by now. It had heard him, probably smelled him too, and judging by the movement of its head following his retreat, it could see him too.

Greg’s heart was beating frantically, his mind drawing a blank. This was impossible. How could there be a wolf in London? A wolf! Impossible. Impossible! The beast took another step forward, the floorboards creaking dangerously under its weight. The last thing Greg wanted was a hungry, wild wolf stuck in a small cellar with him.

“Go away, go away,” Greg prayed under his breath, not daring to look away from the wolf.

He thought someone finally heard his prayers when the beast took a step back, but it started circling the hole instead, whining. 

_ Frustrated it can’t get to the tasty food _ . 

Greg snorted. He probably wasn’t all that good, to be honest, since nicotine and coffee made up most of his diet. He must smell terrible too, what with being on the job for two days straight, so the poor thing had to be starving. And God, Greg must be exhausted for sympathising with a bloody wolf. Maybe it escaped from the zoo, although he was fairly certain those wolves had been moved someplace else a few years back. The wolf whined once more, the sound sharp and anxious, then wandered  off. Greg let out a sigh of relief and his knees buckled under him.

The thump thump of his heart diminished and Greg closed his eyes, thinking he might just fall asleep now that the adrenaline rush had passed. Then he started to feel a bit ridiculous because it couldn't have been a wolf. What was it Sherlock always said? Eliminate the impossible… something something… Well, it just couldn't be a wolf, so it had to have been a dog. A large dog. Maybe a husky. They looked enough like wolves, and it's not like he got a close look at it. Greg chuckled at his own irrational fear. This was the exact reason eyewitnesses were so unreliable. He should know better. But his relief was short lived when he heard scratching from near the collapsed stairwell. His body went into overdrive again, because it’s not the small, almost inaudible scratches a rat would make. It was strong and frantic, like a dog digging for a bone, and Greg knew it was the wolf again. He scrambled forward to grab one of the stair’s rotten planks, because that’s all there was in the empty cellar to defend himself. It wouldn’t help much but he felt better for having something in his hands, then he quickly dove back into the furthest corner from the scratching sound. If he ever made it out alive, no one was going to believe him. No one.

After a few more minutes that felt like an eternity of hell while he waited to be eaten alive, the wolf’s muzzle appeared: long and lined with sharp teeth. It pushed the rest of its body through, the hole it had dug widening until it managed to wriggle through a small space. The damn thing was fucking huge but apparently as supple as a cat. Greg held the plank up, but couldn’t get his legs to work anymore. This was just too much. He had never prepared for something like this. He knew squat about animals and he’d rather face a vicious serial killer anyday rather than this. This was completely unnatural.

Greg watched transfixed as the wolf slowly approached, its nose close to the ground. It almost looked meek and tame like that, but maybe it liked playing with its food. As the beast walked under the circle of moonlight, Greg let out a small gasp. The damn thing was actually beautiful and he doubted it was a wolf now that he'd had a better look, because he thought wolves were gray. This one had a mostly golden coat with some grey and white patches mixed in. Could it be some kind of dog? A breed mixed with some wolf? So maybe… maybe it really was tame!

A tiny flicker of hope rekindled in the depths of his chest and Greg lowered the plank a couple of inches while the wolf looked into his eyes, and they too seemed strange. He would have expected yellow, or brown, but its eyes were blue and disturbingly human-like. Maybe telly wolves were very caricatural and there was actually a lot more diversity in real life, but what did he know? He wasn't a bloody forest ranger. He didn't even like camping.

Greg's grip on the plank tightened again and the wolf whined, lowering its head. Greg didn’t know what to do anymore, beyond confused at the beast’s actions. If it was a wild animal, shouldn’t it have attacked by now? Greg tentatively lowered the plank all the way down and the wolf still didn’t attack, so he dropped it on the floor.

“Good boy?” he asked, just as he would with the Met’s sniffer dogs.

The wolf lifted its head and wagged its bushy tail a couple of times before taking another step forward. They were very close now, and Greg couldn’t help but notice once more the sharp teeth that glinted in the moonlight. A long row of pearly white daggers that could rip his throat out in a second. Greg gulped and forced himself to keep still when the wolf took another step forward. It whined and suddenly, it was close enough to nudge Greg’s forehead with its wet nose and he could feel its hot breath on his cheek.

Greg thought his heart might just explode with the speed it was hammering at beneath his ribs, but he did his best to remain immobile and breathe steadily in and out so he wouldn't spook the animal. The wolf was bigger than he’d expected too, taller than him in his sitting position on the floor. Well, more like collapsed, but who could blame him?

Then, out of nowhere, the wolf licked his face and Greg laughed, because he was surprised and it was warm and wet and tickled.

“Stop it, stop it,” Greg pleaded, trying to push the wolf away but it was strong and heavy and he had no leverage, so he just laughed and suffered through the unexpected attention, giggling when the soft tongue hit a ticklish spot at his temple.

He realized the beast was licking the cuts he got in his fall when it licked his hands. Greg blinked owlishly at the thing. He had no idea if that was very sanitary, but he doubted it, although the scrapes did seem to sting and itch less than before.

“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough,” Greg huffed and patted the thick golden fur, letting out an appreciative hum. “You’re warm.”

Greg felt like burying his head in the wolf’s soft coat and fall asleep, but the stubborn animal apparently had other ideas because it tried nudging him towards the hole it had dug. Greg looked at it dubiously.

“I don’t think I can fit through there,” he said, although he had no idea why he bothered explaining himself. “You might be all nimble, but I’m about as supple as a tree.”

Greg looked through the hole which seemed to connect to a smaller cellar that presumably had an available exit, but when he tried dislodging another stone from the wall to widen it, the whole thing threatened to fall down on them and Greg stopped immediately. He didn’t want to have the whole house to come crashing down on top of him.

“You’d better go,” he told the wolf, pointing at the hole. “It’s not safe here.”

The wolf whined as if it could understand every word he was saying and disagreed with his suggestion. Or maybe Greg was just too bloody tired and imagining things.

“If you can just throw down my phone on your way out, that would be great,” he added with a tired smile.

He was a bit disappointed when the wolf left although he didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he listened as it scrambled out, wanting to make sure it got out safely before returning to the circle of moonlight where he was less likely to have a part of the house fall on him, when, just to prove him wrong, something did drop on him: his phone. Greg looked up, half expecting to see the wolf, which was just plain silly, but, despite an ominous creak from the floorboards, there was no large animal to be seen. Just a coincidence then.

As his continuous streak of bad luck would have it, his phone didn’t work, the battery lost somewhere, ejected when the floor opened up to swallow him. The relief that had flooded through him seconds ago turned cold in his veins. He was just so tired… Greg curled up on himself, trying to save as much warmth as possible. Just a few hours. Surely someone would come looking for him in the morning.

 

Greg felt hot, too hot. He tried throwing back the blankets but there were none, only a cuddly furnace which smell like earth and plants. He blinked awake, confused, until he saw the dismal little cellar and his friendly wolf snuggled up beside him.

“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I thought I told you to leave?”

But Greg was grateful it had come back for him and he hugged the warm fur around its neck, chuckling when the wolf didn’t even protest or try to push him away. Instead, it nudged something with it’s large nose to push it in his direction. Greg narrowed his eyes at the object, not quite believing what he was seeing: a phone. It was covered in globs of saliva but it was definitely a phone. He cautiously picked it up and wiped it as best he could on his coat, then checked whether it worked. With one press of the button on the side it turned on and he almost whooped with joy. Not only did it work, but it wasn't locked. He immediately dialed the Yard’s number and demanded to be transferred to Donovan’s phone, explaining in a few words what had happened. She was pissed and blamed ‘the freak’ of course, as if he’d been there to personally push Greg down the hole, but he would still rather deal with her bad temper than have to deal with anyone else at the Yard, not that it would stay quiet for long, but it would be slightly less embarrassing.

Greg hung up and examined the phone more carefully in the dim light. It was very girly, colour-wise, and there was a flowery strap attached to it as well as a glittery butterfly stuck on the case. A teenage girl’s phone if he had to venture a guess. Greg looked suspiciously at the wolf who just so happened to be staring at its enormous paws right then.

“Did you steal this?” he asked.

He didn’t see the wolf bring him the thing, but how else could it have arrived there, and it had nudged it towards him, not to mention it had probably been the wolf who had pushed his phone down the hole, so… it realized it didn’t work, stole another one for him and brought it here? No. Greg shook his head. No, he was losing his mind… That was just insane.

Greg petted the wolf absent-mindedly. It was thrilling to be able to touch such a massive beast so casually when it could turn on him any second and rip his throat out with his sharp rows of fangs. That it not only accepted his touch, but leaned into it was even more satisfying and Greg was almost lulled back to sleep when the wolf suddenly jumped to its feet, knocking him over.

“Oi! What’s the matter?”

The wolf looked at him, licked his face, and then disappeared through the hole in the wall. Greg was still gaping at it when he heard sirens in the distance and some time later, movement upstairs. Heels and heavier footstep: the cavalry had arrived. Greg shouted out a warning about the floor’s instability and soon, he saw Donovan’s face appearing along with a couple of other uniformed officers.

“Hey, boss,” she said. “Didn’t know you enjoyed speleology.”

“Quit being a smartass and get me out of here,” he growled, trying to hang on to what little dignity he had left for the night.

 


	2. Imitation Game

The next day, after some much needed rest, Greg read all he could on wolves, taking advantage of the fact that Sherlock had found the missing kid while he was wallowing in a dark hole, not even needing his damn picture of the floorboards in the end. One day, contrary to what Donovan claimed, they would be standing over Sherlock’s dead body, and Greg would be the one who put it there, out of sheer frustration with the annoying git.

However, as helpful as Google was being, his research didn't yield much results. His unexpected rescuer  _ might _ be a wolf. It sure looked a hell of a lot like the ones in his browser, but he couldn't be sure. He wished he'd thought of taking a picture of it with the stolen phone. Speaking of which... Donovan knocked on his door.

"Miss Davis here to see you," she announced and he waved for her to send her in.

"I didn't know Scotland Yard took care of stolen phones," Miss Davis said in lieu of a greeting, then plopped herself down in one of the chairs.

"Yes, well, the circumstances might have been a bit peculiar, right?"

"You mean the naked man? Yes, that was rather unexpected, wasn’t it? Is he like a serial-flasher phone-snatcher? It startled me so much, I didn't even think of going after him. Did you catch him?"

Greg frowned at her, not only because she asked questions without waiting for answers, but also because it didn't make sense. He’d been expecting to hear about a wolf, or at the very least, a very big and scary dog, not a naked man.

"Is this your phone?" he asked her.

He did his best not to snort with derision as he slid the phone towards her, because he had thought it belonged to a teenage girl, not a woman well into her thirties. Anyone would have made the same assumption. Well, maybe not Sherlock, but he didn’t count.

"Yes!" she exclaimed and reached out for it eagerly, then grimaced as she looked at her blackened fingers. "It's all dirty. What happened to it?"

"That's my fault," Greg said sheepishly. "I dusted it for prints and it was a bit dirty to begin with when I found it. I had to use it to phone the police too. I hope that's alright with you?"

"Sure," she said with a shrug.

"Can you tell me what happened then, when your phone was stolen?"

"Well…” she drew out, eyes flicking upwards as she thought back. “I was a bit drunk, to be honest, so it’s kind of hazy.”

Greg growled. Just his luck.

“I was walking back from the pub, actually. It’s not far from where I live, so I didn’t take a cab. I was chatting with my friend Emma on the phone about this guy I met, and then this man just runs right past me, snatches my phone out of my hand and disappears again,” the woman smiled at him, not coy or humorous, more the vicious sort. “Completely starkers. Like I said: I didn’t try running after him, not in my heels and it took me a while to understand what had just happened.”

“Could you describe him?”

“He was hot,” she answered, nodding emphatically.

Greg did his best not to roll his eyes and waited patiently for her to continue but she apparently thought that was a good enough description.

“Size? Weight? Hair colour? Anything?” he asked, his tone more stern than before. Even he could tolerate only so much stupidity before he snapped.

“Uhm...well. I wasn’t really looking at his face if you see what I mean…” She closed her eyes briefly, as witnesses often did when they tried recalling details, so he waited her out. “Not that tall, I think, but nice muscles. No tan though, shame. Oh, and he had light hair. Blond maybe. And cut short. Uhm… no, that’s all. It was dark and it happened so fast, you know?”

Greg gave her a reassuring smile and a nod of understanding.

“Did you see or hear a dog around too? A large one?” he asked.

“No. No, I didn’t. Why? Is that important?”

“No, probably not.’

Greg thanked her for her time, closed the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d wanted to understand how his wolf has managed to steal a phone and he found himself with a naked man on his hands instead. The mystery just got more… mysterious. Had the wolf stolen the phone from the naked man? How often could a single phone get stolen in one night?

Greg checked the Met’s reports for complaints about a naked man fitting the rather vague description. There were a few, but none of them were in the habit of stealing phones and were usually the result of a drunken night out ending on a stupid dare. What was more surprising were the calls they’d gotten for sightings of a wolf or wolf howls, but they had apparently not been taken seriously. No wonder. Greg wouldn't have either just yesterday, but he knew better now.

He twirled around on his chair once, looking at the mound of paperwork waiting to be filed. Nope, not gonna happen today. He grabbed his coat instead and strode across the office.

“Where’re you going?” Donovan called at his back.

“Out! Call if you need me!”

Once Greg had parked his car in the exact same spot he had the night before, he looked at the run down house, the unkempt garden and the park sprawling behind it, unsure how he should proceed. How did you go about finding a wolf? Tracking? He doubted it would be the same technique as for humans. He scratched his stubble and shrugged before heading for the house. It took him a few minutes to find the first paw prints, large and heavy in the soft ground that had been flowerbeds years ago. It wasn’t easy following them through the grass, harder ground, over rocks, but out of sheer determination and by circling and backtracking a lot, he managed to follow the trail, and was rather proud of his progress until he heard a growl. He hadn’t thought this far, truth be told. The wolf had been affectionate last night and he hadn’t thought it might be different this time. Was he trespassing on his territory or something? He’d read wolves were a bit peculiar about that. Greg crouched and peered into the growling shrub.

“Hey, there. It’s me,” Greg said. “The klutz who fell down the hole? I’m not going to hurt you.”

The growling stopped immediately and the shrubs shook before parting, the gigantic wolf stepping out. God, he’d forgotten how big it was. Definitely bigger than those on the internet, and much prettier.

“Good boy,” he cooed, extending a hand, and paused. “Or girl?” 

He didn’t know, but doubted the wolf would welcome him looking between its legs right now either.

“Listen, it’s not safe for you to stay here. You don’t have a collar and there’s already been sightings of you around the area. Animal control might get wind of it eventually and I’m not sure how they’d deal with something like you, because you don’t really look like a dog, you know?”

Greg paused, realizing he was talking to an animal, trying to convince it to follow him. But he was intelligent, he’d brought him a phone when he needed one, after he’d told him he needed one… Greg huffed and pushed himself back on his feet, took the couple of steps separating them and patted the wolf’s fur.

“I’d forgotten you were so soft,” he said with a fond smile. “Guess I can’t convince you to come out of the cold, eh? Probably don’t need to with that great fur coat of yours.”

The wolf nudged his hand and licked it. Greg chuckled. He liked talking to the wolf. Molly said she talked to her cats, and he knew Sherlock talked to his skull. He’d even caught Mrs Hudson talking to the suspicious looking plants on her window sill once. Surely talking to his wolf wasn’t all that bad. At least, it was smart.

“Want to come live with me? I could use a flatmate. And someone to fetch me phones when I fall down holes. You’ll have to pretend to be a dog though.”

The wolf yipped. It was a strange sound to come out of such a foreboding animal. Greg looked at it to find its ears drooped and its tongue lolling out giving it a ridiculous expression that made him laugh out loud, holding his sides.

“Christ... Is that… Is that your imitation of a dog?” Greg asked.

The wolf wagged its tail, adding to its “I’m just a nice doggy!” impression.

“Oh, God! It is!” he chuckled.

Greg suddenly stopped and turned to look at it again.

“You really do understand me, don’t you?”

The wolf gave up its pretence and just stared back with those too-human blue eyes.

“Don’t worry. It’s okay if you do. It’s kind of cool, actually. I won’t tell anyone though, that might get me locked up, copper or not. I already knew you were special anyway, what with the phone…” he drifted off, thinking of how he’d gotten it, but shook his head. It’s not as if the wolf could tell him. “Besides, one good turn deserves another. You saved me, I’ll keep you safe. Deal?”

The wolf yipped again, apparently his way of saying “yes”. He wondered what a “no” would sound like. The wolf followed him back to his car, looking much like they were just a man and his dog out for a walk in the park. Then it climbed on the passenger seat and stared at the seat belt for a moment before curling on the seat. Greg shook his head. He’d never seen such a strange animal before. 

 

Greg noted more and more strange incidents when the animal settled at home with him. It would watch telly with him, actually watch it, not just curl up next to him and sleep like he’d seen other pets do, but stare attentively at the screen when the show was on, then disregard it entirely during commercials. It would even make a sort of huffing sound that could be laughter at times. Stranger yet, it stared at his newspaper as if reading it. His eyes moving to the right, back to the left then to the right… Greg pretended not to notice, afraid it would spook his wolf away, because as bizarre as it was, he liked having him around the house, it felt less empty and more like an actual home. He had someone to welcome him back, and someone to talk to about his day. Now he knew why Molly had cats, and why Sherlock had a skull, which was as close to a pet as he could keep since he probably couldn’t keep a pet alive even if he had wanted to, what with the way he got distracted by cases.

 

However, even Greg snapped on one of his rare days off when he found his wolf sitting on his kitchen chair, drinking his tea. Well, more like lapping at his tea, but wolves did  _ not _ drink tea. Of that, he was absolutely certain. He even looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie-jar and dipped his head as if apologizing.

“That’s okay,” Greg said, keeping his voice low and soft, always afraid to scare the wolf off. “I’ll just make an extra cup with mine next time. Milk and sugar?”

The wolf yipped and bounded over the table to lick his face, sending cup, newspaper and chairs flying everywhere. Greg laughed and pushed the great lump of fur off his chest, then picked himself up, rubbing his sore bum and straightening the chair.

“You don’t realize how strong you are, eh? Still think you’re a little pup?”

The wolf made that huffing laugh and bounded around the table once to stop with a headbutt to his knees that almost sent him toppling to the floor all over again. Laughing, he put the wolf in a headlock and they ended up lounging on the floor.

He came to a decision then. What had been nagging at the back of his mind for so long demanded to be examined and solved, however ludicrous it seemed. His rational mind and detective instinct did not always mesh well, and sometimes, one had to give in to the other

“But seriously,” Greg said, crouching in front of the wolf to look it in the eyes. “You’re not really a wolf, are you? Or not only a wolf.”

The wolf stilled and stared at him.

“Either I’m right or I’m going insane, so you might as well fess up.”

The wolf titled his head to the side, his startling blue eyes not leaving his.

“My theory right now is along the lines of a werewolf, except for the whole murdering frenzy thing, obviously, since you didn’t eat me, so how much worse can it be?”

The wolf took a step back and then it was actually rising on its two hind legs and… changing. Growing upwards, thinning, the fur pulled inwards, leaving bare skin behind… Greg scrambled back up, his breathing catching at the sight. Okay… so he had just said he believed in the werewolf theory, but seeing it, actually seeing his wolf transforming into… Yep, there was the naked blond guy Miss Davis had described. It was too much all of a sudden, it was just...

“Just a bit worse,” the man replied, his voice raspy.

Greg fell back in the chair he’d just picked up and stared wide eyed at the man’s retreating back while he snatched the blanket draped on the sofa’s back, and he might have uttered a few curses until the man came back and sat on the floor in front of him.

“Only got a few minutes in this form, so if you have questions, better be quick about it.”

“What are you?” The question was immediate. He had been wanting, needing to know for a while now.

“Was a man. Normal. Crazy old woman turned me into the wolf.”

“But that’s... impossible.”

The man shrugged.

“How long ago?”

“Over three years, I think. Hard to keep track of time sometimes.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

Greg stared at him because this was crazy, and fantastic, and still a bit unbelievable. It was like finding a dragon or something. A very sad dragon.

“What’s your name? I mean, do you have family or something? Someone you want me to contact?”

“John Watson,” he paused at hearing his own name. “No, no more family-”

The man, John, whimpered suddenly and doubled over, his forehead almost touching the tiled floor of his kitchen. He looked in pain, but in a matter of seconds, he was a wolf again. Greg hurried over, his hands gripping the familiar soft fur in a hug, finding the gesture easy although he wouldn’t have dared to hug him in his human shape, which didn’t make much sense if he thought about it, since they were the same person.

“I’m sorry, John. I had no idea.”

He didn't know what he'd been expecting exactly, but not this. Poor guy. No one deserved such a fate. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the solitude he must have felt. And the fear, the hopelessness...

The wolf whined and fell asleep, wrapped in the blanket with his head on Greg’s lap.

 

The wolf, John, slept right through the day, which explained why he didn’t transform often. Going from one shape to the other seemed both painful and exhausting. Not to mention this time out put him in danger if he was outside, completely defenseless. He could understand how it wasn’t worth the effort or the risk when it only lasted a few minutes. While John slept, Greg went about preparing breakfast, beans on toast for him, a rare-cooked steak for John, as well as two cups of tea with milk and sugar.

“Hey, sleepy-head,” Greg greeted cheerily when John trotted out of the bedroom on his soft pads, because yes, the wolf usually joined him on the end of his bed, curling up neatly on himself, and no, Greg didn’t mind, not even after he got confirmation he was actually a werewolf of sorts. Or would that be a wereman since he was a wolf most of the time and not the other way around? He wished he could have talked longer to John, not that they couldn’t, but it was rather one sided.

Greg hesitated as he placed the tea on the table. He glanced at John.

“Do you want to eat at the table? It’s a bit weird serving you food on the floor now.”

John did something that looked a lot like an eyeroll and tapped his paw twice on the tiled floor in front of him.

“Yeah, I suppose you are a bit of a messy eater,” Greg teased and avoided the playful nip at his calf, crooning in victory: “Ha! Too slow! And you call yourself a wolf.”

John huffed and turned to his breakfast, literally wolfing his steak down. After that, Greg had to suffer through breakfast with his wolf just staring at him, he wasn’t even reading the newspaper today and Greg had the feeling he was up to something. Finally, he drank the last of his tea and glanced outside: it didn’t look like it would rain but it was definitely getting colder.

“I’m off!” he called back but was startled when he found John right behind him. “I left the back door propped open in case you want to go for a run. Be careful though, okay?”

He patted the thick fur around the wolf’s neck after he’d bundled up in his winter gear and opened the door when John bolted through his legs.

“John? What the hell?” he muttered when he regained his balance. “Hey! Get back here!”

But John stood at attention beside his car’s door and ignored him completely. Greg locked his front door, John could go around through the garden to get back in, the git.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, shivering when a gust of wind hit him full in the face. “I’m going to be late.”

John looked at him and then the car.

“You can’t come with me,” Greg said with a scowl. “I know Sherlock’s always going on about how unobservant we are, but I’m sure someone’s going to notice there’s a ruddy big wolf following me around.”

John did his dog imitation, ears flopping down, tongue lolling out and tail wagging. That always got a smile out of him. 

“You practiced in front of the mirror, didn’t you?” Greg accused, crossing his arms on his chest, both to show his disapproval and to fight off the chill. “Can you keep that up all day?”

John yipped and sniffed at the door again.

“Oh, alright,” Greg said as he opened the door to let him in, feeling like he didn’t have all that much of a choice in the matter. John might have simply run after his car if he refused, the stubborn git. “But I’m stopping by a pet shop to get you a disguise since you’re going undercover.”

Greg smiled when John growled next to him, then started the car. 

“Oh, you can growl all you want, but that’s non-negotiable. I’m not taking any risks of losing you.”

That seemed to ease John a bit and he merely sulked for the rest of the way.


	3. Slap-dash Stupid

Greg walked into Scotland Yard, feeling very self-conscious about the giant wolf at his side. John had been very reluctant at the idea of the collar and leash, but had soon realized the necessity of it when even the pet store clerk had been startled by his appearance. When they walked with him on a leash though, a few people still stared, but it was more out of curiosity than their brain kicking into fight or flight instinct. Leash trumped Wolf. Greg didn’t doubt John would still be giving him shit the next time he transformed back into a human though.

“Get your puppy face on,” he told John when they stood in front of the Yard, looking for all the world like they were going into battle.

It wasn’t so far from the truth: the walk to his office went without a hitch because Greg breezed through the madness of it all, ignoring the towering piles of files, the coffee-stained mugs strewn everywhere, the harassed looking detectives and their reluctant witnesses or suspects. He didn’t even stop when he heard Donovan calling his name, because his office, his safe haven, was right there, a couple of feet away… One… He pushed the door open and ushered John in.

“Lestrade!” she said again, but she wasn’t looking at him, peering around his body instead.

“Yes?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I thought I saw… It is!” she gushed, her tone too high pitched for comfort as she pushed passed him.

Greg just groaned and closed the door behind them. Donovan, for all that she didn’t want to be seen as a woman, was cooing at his “pet” like women usually did with babies. It was a disturbing sight coming from her, so he ignored the scene and checked his mails, memos and on-going cases, but when she was still engrossed in her admiration for John, who was preening and snuggling up to her, he cleared his throat.

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” he told her.

She stood and brushed off some strands of his wolf’s golden fur from her vest and trousers but she was still grinning.

“I didn’t know you had a dog. He’s beautiful. What’s his name.”

Greg’s mind went blank. He couldn’t very well call him John, even if that was his name. It was too human a name when they were trying to make him as dog-like as possible. Then he remembered John’s middle name when he’d checked up his missing person’s file.

“Hamish,” he answered. “I’m just keeping him for a friend.”

Yeah, for John, he sniggered to himself. He certainly didn’t own him. No one owned John Watson. His wolf form rather suited him for that. Strong and independent. It was a wonder he’d accepted to shack up with him instead of roughing it in the parks of London now that he thought about it.

“What breed is he?” Donovan asked, still petting John’s head as if she couldn’t bear to leave his side.

“Uhm?” Greg said, pretending to be distracted by some paperwork. “Some sort of husky, I think. Have you finished that report on the bank incident? I don’t think I’ve seen it go through?”

Finally, Donovan snapped out of her puppy-love daze and became the professional sergeant he was used to, saying she was just about finished. Greg breathed out in relief when she left.

“That actually went better than expected,” Greg told John who padded over to his desk and rested his head on top of a file. “Hey, don’t slobber over that,” he said snatching it out from under him. “Donovan is sharp. If she doesn’t suspect anything, I think we’re probably safe.”

John licked his hand in answer. Greg wasn’t sure what it meant but he petted his head and buried himself in the never-ending paperwork that filled the time between cases. Paperwork grew like weeds at the Yard. He wouldn’t say he was looking forward to a good murder, but he certainly was thinking it very hard.

All day long, Yarders came to visit John who had apparently become the new mascot on their floor and had somehow acquired a cushion to sleep on, a squishy ball to play with, a bone that might as well belong to a diplodocus given its size, and a bowl of water. The things just kept appearing in his office every time he had his back turned. Greg couldn’t fault the bowl of water though. John had scared one of the janitors half to death when he’d found the giant “dog” drinking from the bucket of water he'd just filled and Greg had to apologize to the poor guy when he'd checked what the commotion was about. John accepted all the attention with good grace, seemingly enjoying all the petting and compliments. But maybe he really did. God knows he’d been alone for far too long. So maybe Greg was a bit jealous, then. Not of his colleagues’ attentions. God, no. But he was used to having John all to himself and now, he had to share him with the whole bloody division, support staff and visitors. When his office door opened again, Donovan visiting for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he almost groaned in annoyance, but she quickly held up her hands.

“A body was found on the banks of the Thames,” she said quickly and smiled smugly when she added. “I thought Hamish might enjoy a walk.”

 

Donovan was finding the whole situation a lot less amusing when she had to settle for the back seat because John wouldn’t give up the passenger seat, he’d even showed her his long, sharp white fangs in warning, and then she got even more disgruntled when they found Sherlock already at the crime scene.

“Did you call him?” she snapped.

“Of course not,” Greg replied with a warning tone. “You were with me the whole time, Donovan.”

_ Don’t be an idiot, _ was not said, but the subtext was loud enough that she apologised before climbing out of the car. Greg dawdled for a bit to warn John.

“That tall man with the curly hair,” he said pointing him out. “Be careful, he’s very, very smart. I’m not kidding. He can tell what I ate this morning just by looking at me. If anyone can see right through you, it’ll be him… Maybe you should wait here. Just in case.”

John growled. He had been cooped up all day, so Greg relented with a sigh and got out, holding the door for John before he marched to the crime scene, John held on a leash while he did his best dog impression.

“Wait here,” he told him. “Even I can’t have my dog trudging all over a crime scene.”

He handed the leash to a weary looking Met officer who looked like he’d rather jump in the Thames than have John anywhere near him, then ducked under the tape.

“Sherlock,” he said with a nod, not bothering to ask how he’d gotten on this side of the tape without his knowing or consent. 

He’d probably just flashed one of his stolen badges or teared his way through the officers with vicious deductions. They should know better, but Greg really couldn’t blame them either. Sherlock had a way of shocking people into compliance. A quick survey of the scene and victim proved it to be pretty straightforward, so either he was missing something vital or Sherlock was so bored as to want even the most boring of cases. The lanky figure of the consulting detective was standing eerily still, which was odd in itself since he was usually full of manic energy at crime scenes. Not this time though, the tall man was just standing over the body with his head bowed.

“Sherlock?” he asked, more worried now. 

Sherlock finally looked him in the eye and there was sorrow lurking just beneath the surface.

“Oh,” he gasped out softly, taking another look at the young girl who had washed up on the muddy shore, her small figure battered but still dressed with large, unfeminine clothes. Warm, sensible clothes. “Is she one of yours, then?” 

Sherlock nodded and looked down again. He knew more homeless people than anyone else in this city thanks to his large and active network. He knew them well.

“She went by Scissors. She traded haircuts for other services. Smart girl. Young too,” he paused and coughed, highly uncharacteristic of the man. Greg waited him out. “Sixteen, originally from Surrey going by her accent, hung around Blue Joe and The Captain, whom you both know. They might know her real name if you can find them.”

Greg noted it down and thanked him.

“Any idea what might have happened to her since you’re here?”

The patented Holmes long-suffering look hit him full force.

“Surely even you can see that.”

“I can. I was wondering if there was more to it since you’re here.”

Sherlock shook his head, explaining that another of his homeless had told him about her and he’d come to check no one was after his network.

“Why would you think anyone was after them?”

“To undermine me. They are a valuable resource, as you well know,” Sherlock huffed, then continued in barely a whisper. “Something is brewing. Something big. I’ve been waiting for it for some time now. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t him.”

“Him?” Greg asked, eyebrows arched.

Sherlock was often cryptic but not voluntarily cryptic. It was usually just a result of Greg not being able to follow his leaps in deduction and thought process. But now he was being as cryptic as his brother, which had to be a sign of impending doom.

“You have a dog, Lestrade? Are you really that lonely without you wife? It’s so… pedestrian,” he scanned the perimeter and his eyes landed on John.

Greg's heart rate skyrocketed. This was the real test of his wolf’s ability to blend in. Sherlock blinked but his eyes never left John. 

“Unusual breed,” he commented before examining him now, his pale eyes narrowing.

_ Uh, oh, I’m in trouble now. _

“You’ve been drinking less coffee and haven’t smoked for five...no, six days. Your sleeping and eating habits seem to have improved, too.” He hummed. “Maybe there’s something to be said for pets.”

Greg wondered if that was all true since it seemed to have happened without any conscious effort on his part. To his horror, Sherlock sauntered away, making a beeline for John, but he was intercepted at the last moment by Donovan.

“Don’t touch him, freak,” she snapped. “You’re not going to do some weird experiment on Hamish.”

“Hamish,” Sherlock snorted. “He’s hardly of Scottish descent.”

Donovan was about to start a verbal war with Sherlock. Again. Greg could see her gearing up, hear the insults before they had even formed in her own mind, so he waved her off to supervise the SOCO team. She loved doing that since she could buddy up to Anderson.

Sherlock ducked under the tape and crouched in front of John while Greg’s hands hovered in a panic over him, trying to think of a way to pry him away from his wolf, but the detective was already examining him with minutiae. Greg was almost expecting Sherlock to whip out his pocket magnifying-glass. John, bless him, was scratching his flank with his hind leg, pretending to be completely disinterested in the detective.

“There’s something… I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Lestrade inhaled sharply, waiting for the moment Sherlock would stand up dramatically and point an accusing finger at John, exclaiming: “Aha! A werewolf!”, so he felt rather let down when Sherlock patted John’s head perfunctorily, as if he’d seen it done before and was mimicking the gesture from memory, then got up and commented blandly: “But I’m no dog expert.”

Without warning, John licked Sherlock's hand. The look of disgust on his face was priceless and Greg had to bite back a laugh as he looked at him wiping his hand on the constable’s sleeve. Poor guy still daren’t move but whether it was because of the wolf or Sherlock, he wasn’t sure. Greg told him take a break and grab a coffee, while Sherlock disappeared off on some other adventure, leaving him to deal with the sad death of the young homeless girl.

They were just clearing off the scene an hour later when Sherlock texted him for backup. Seriously.  _ Texted _ him for  _ backup. _ That was probably a first in the history of mankind, and he wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. Greg still didn’t know why Sherlock didn’t like calling directly, but he followed the instructions anyway, because Sherlock never asked for help if it he could help it, so he had no doubt the situation was dire. And that’s how he ended up in a good old shoot out on the docks.

“What the hell is this about?” Greg growled once he had managed to crawl up to Sherlock’s position with John at his side, growling at the shooters. He caught him by the collar when it looked like he was about to run head on towards them and had Donovan babysit him while their armed officers took position on their flanks.

“I was just asking questions,” Sherlock said defensively. Greg waited. “I might have asked the wrong questions,” he admitted. “I thought they would know something about Scissors, but it turns out they’re just smuggling drugs.”

“Right,” Greg said with narrowed eyes. “You know I’m going to pat you down once those idiots are under arrest.”

“I’m clean. I’m not-”

“Yeah? Well, sorry for being suspicious. I’m not taking any risks after the last time.”

Sherlock went into a strop after that, sulking so loudly, he might as well have been screaming, but suddenly, he was on his feet and running off to the west of the shooting.

“Sherlock!” Greg called, alarmed that he was barely staying under cover by running bent over in two. “Sherlock, come back here, you idiot!”

“Just let him be,” Donovan groused. “He’s always running into trouble.”

Greg scowled at her, wondering if she’d actually be happy if Sherlock got himself killed. His face twisted in disgust but before he could say anything he might regret later, he ran after Sherlock shadowed by John soon after. In the dark warehouse door through which he last saw Sherlock’s coat tails disappear, Greg stopped and took the security off his gun before glancing in. Pitch black. He was literally going in blind. 

“Fuck. Why does he always do this?”

A bullet ricocheted nearby and John whined, nudging him with his snout to go in. Greg trusted his instincts. It's not like they had better cover outside the warehouse than inside. The silence in the cavernous building was almost as bad as the dark. Shouldn't he be hearing Sherlock? His footsteps at the very least. A door slammed somewhere in the distance, then a shout that could have been Sherlock or one of the drug smugglers or whatever else was in here. Greg ran in that direction, then finally spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance. No one else had quite that coat and mane of curly hair. Relief flooded him, then dread soon after when he heard a gunshot and Sherlock disappeared from view. Hopefully he had just ducked, but…

“Sherlock!”

No answer. Greg cursed and ran faster, but he was already out of breath. Out of shape, he realized. It wasn't long before he had to stop, but another shot rang out and he took cover. A shout and angry bellows echoed. What the hell was happening over there? John whined again, looking like he wanted to go ahead.

“No,” Greg hissed.

He couldn't let John put himself in danger, not even for Sherlock. He was just a civilian, he had nothing to do with this whole mess. But his wolf yipped and shot off, fast as the wind.

“No! John!”

But he was ignored, he couldn't even see him anymore. Greg ran after him as fast he could, knowing he wouldn't be of much help when he arrived wheezing like an old man, but he didn't t care. He had to find them. They were the closest thing he had to friends and now, both Sherlock  _ and _ John were in danger. Why did he always get saddled with idiots who ran headfirst into danger? Did they  _ want _ him to have a heart attack?

The crates stocked in the warehouse made it a veritable labyrinth with twists and turns and dead-ends but Greg plowed on, slowly but surely, until he reached a metal stairway that lead to a network of catwalks where he'd last glimpsed Sherlock. John would be with him by now, he was sure of it. And there, right there, a glimpse of gold, a darker shadow, another gunshot and then a yelp.

“No! Nonono!”

All Greg had time to see after that was the back of some stranger disappearing into the shadows. He didn’t try stopping him, he had more important business to attend to.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” he grunted, picking himself off the floor. “Your dog pushed me out of the way.”

“John?” he called when his wolf didn’t get back up, but he was breathing, he could the fur moving up and down, up and down. Maybe a bit too fast. “John?”

“John?” Sherlock echoed quizzically.

Greg ignored him.  He kneeled next to John and tried to roll him over but his hand came up wet and sticky. Blood.

“No,” he choked out. “You idiot.”

He’d taken the bullet for Sherlock. Idiots, the both of them. He tried picking John up but his fur was disappearing, his shape changing. Panicked, Greg looked at Sherlock who was staring open mouthed as his wolf turned into a man. Greg could see it clearly now: a bullet wound bleeding profusely from the shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he snapped and the wide eyes reluctantly slid towards him. “Help him. You’ve got to help him.”

“How? What… How? We can’t take him to the hospital... A vet? I don’t know!?”

Seeing Sherlock panic for perhaps the first time in his life, and just when he really needed him too, Greg flicked him in the middle of the forehead, then held his head between his hands to make him still and look him in his eyes.

“Think, Sherlock. Think!”

Sherlock blinked and his fluttering hands stopped, he was all economy of movements now as he pulled off his scarf and wrapped it tightly around the bullet wound.

“Apply pressure,” he ordered and Greg did, waiting for the next instruction. Sherlock could save John if he only put his mind to it. He could do anything. “I know someone. Follow me.”

Greg took off his coat to cover John, then picked him up in his arms, thankful he was rather small for a man. He managed to keep pressure on the wound with his own body, but Sherlock’s scarf was getting darker by the minute and they had to take a detour to avoid the other Yarders. When they got to his car, Sherlock took the wheel without argument and Greg cradled John in the back, alarmed when he shifted back into a wolf again, wondering what it meant. Was it a good sign? A bad one?

The man Sherlock took him too was not so amenable to take them in.

“You vant I heal your dog?” he asked skeptically when Sherlock pushed his way in. “I no dog-tor.”

Greg set John down on what had obviously been used as an operating table before, but it looked old and not all that clean. He gave Sherlock a doubtful look, but saw money exchange hands between the two men. He hoped he was right to trust Sherlock with this. He hoped John wouldn’t transform again because he certainly didn’t trust this so called doctor with such a secret, even if he had to trust him with John’s life.

  
  



	4. Heartbeats

As they waited some way off from the poor imitation of an operating room in what might be a simple living-room, Greg kept an eye on the doctor patching up John. At the very least, the man looked like he knew what he was doing: he had the right instruments and was working fast, efficiently, his hands steady. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders at the sight, which is when Sherlock chose to pounce.

“What is he, Lestrade? How could you keep this from me? It’s… it’s mind blowing! And believe me, I'm not saying that lightly.” Sherlock loomed over him, crowding him, demanding.

There was no way Sherlock, of all people, was going to let this go. Once he had a mystery in the palm of his hand, he had to solve it, take it apart and put it back together again once it made sense. Until then, he wouldn’t relent, not for anything: food, sleep, hygiene, common sense… Nothing. But he would have to, just this once.

“A promise,” Greg said.

“What?”

“Promise me you will never tell anyone about this. No one. Under any circumstance. Never.”

Greg nodded to himself, satisfied his demand left absolutely no loopholes Sherlock could exploit.

“But it’s the most interesting case ever! It’s a ten. It’s more than a ten! Why would you keep it from me? From the world?”

“Because it’s not a case, Sherlock. You saw him: he’s a person! Can you imagine what would become of him if this got out, if even just your brother knew…”

“Baskerville,” Sherlock finished, his enthusiasm apparently dimmed at the memory of the military facility he had broken into.

Greg nodded. Mycroft had sent him there after his wayward little brother, “to keep an eye on him”, and he remembered the place just as well as Sherlock. God… their experiments. They’d be very interested indeed in such a unique specimen as John. They’d probably open him up, cut him into pieces to see how he ticked, how they could use him, replicate him. Greg shivered at the memory of the Hound, seeing John in its place.

“I won’t,” Sherlock said. “I promise.”

Greg nodded, glanced at the doctor who was finishing up his work by turning his wolf into a gauze-mummy.

“Not here. Meet me at my place.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“You brother is always spying on you. Make sure he doesn’t. I don’t want him wondering what’s so interesting about my place all of a sudden and find. him ferreting about.”

Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t argue the point and left before him. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he was not putting John in any more danger. He’d promised to take care of him and he got him shot instead. He wouldn’t fail him again. 

 

Greg was exhausted by the time he made it home, but he carefully laid his wolf on the sofa and made sure he hadn't pulled his stitches, but it seemed Sherlock’s shady doctor actually knew his stuff. Speaking of the devil, Sherlock entered through the kitchen, as quiet as a ghost. Greg hoped he had picked the lock responsibly. He didn't fancy having to pay a locksmith first thing tomorrow because the drama queen wanted to make an entrance.

“Any change?”

“No. Just sleeping it off. It's not unusual when he transforms. It wears him out.”

“From the beginning, then,” Sherlock ordered and sat next to them. A promise was a promise, so Greg told him how he met the wolf, how he went back for him on a hunch, how he was acting strangely and how he confronted him about his true nature.

“I think he's an idiot,” was Sherlock's only contribution up to that point. “He could have just… licked himself or whatever it is dogs do, and you would never have known.”

“What if he wanted me to know? I mean, come on, he was drinking my tea, sitting in my chair… that's not very canine behaviour.”

“Still, it was quite a gamble. Lucky for him, you're an idiot too.”

“Oi!”

Sherlock grinned at him and it looked genuine. Greg was eighty percent sure it was genuine, which meant he was teasing him? Sherlock Holmes wouldn't do something as “pedestrian” as that, but the man in front of him looked nothing like the hardened consulting detective he brought on crime scene and more like the kid he got off the streets and who was high as… shit!

“Sherlock,” Greg said sternly and stood in front of him so he wouldn't try to run. “Did you come here straight from the doctor’s?”

“No, I made a very public appearance at St Barts,” he said, showing off a stethoscope that had been half buried under the great collar of his belstaff. “To lose my brother’s tail on me, like we discussed. What's wrong?”

“Get up,” Greg sighed.

“Why?” Sherlock asked and shrank in on himself in a very suspicious manner that reminded him of bad times in the past. 

“I’m patting you down. Come on, up you get.”

“You're being ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed but stood, arms raised while Greg started going through his many pocket. “Just because there were drugs there doesn't mean I took some. There are drugs on every street corner, you might as well pat me down everytime we see each other.”

Greg ignored his rant and checked his sock elastics, his belt and his shirt collar. He knew all of Sherlock's tricks when it came to hiding drugs, but it appeared he was clean. His eyes looked clear too, focused, so what was with the jolly attitude?

“Satisfied?” Sherlock huffed and dropped back in his seat.

Greg only grunted, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction of being right. He got that too often already.

“Why would I need drugs when I have this?” he added, his eyes riveted on the wolf’s sleeping form.

A shudder ran through him at the manic gleam he saw there. The same he had for locked room mysteries, serial murders and any other deaths by unconventional methods. It was far from reassuring.

“I feel like I need to remind you he's a person, not one of your science experiments.”

Sherlock waved off his concern, took off his coat and adjusted the stolen stethoscope in his ears. Playing doctor, then. Seeing no harm in that, Greg let him examine John, his clinical eyes dancing over the prone form the way it did over dead bodies at crime scene. He inspected his fur, paws, ears, teeth, pulse, wound… Nothing was left unchecked and Greg was surprised none of it woke the wolf. The examination came to a stop and Sherlock sat back, fingers crossed under his chin in contemplation.

“Well?” Greg prompted, gliding his fingers absent-mindedly through the silky fur. “What can you tell?”

“A lot, not that it will help. It…  _ He _ shows all the characteristics of being a canis lupus, a grey wolf, but twice the average size and weight, a golden coat is not that unusual in such specimens, but he seems to be greying prematurely given his approximate human age-”

Sherlock stopped and bit his bottom lip, hesitant, something Greg had hardly ever seen before.

“His heartbeat is that of a wolf. Lucky for him, he was turned into a large canine breed so the difference in heartbeat is only about 20%, but I think it’s aging him faster than he would as a man. If he stays much longer in this form…” Sherlock did not need to finish his sentence.

“But he can’t stay in his human form. He told me he can only hold it for few minutes at a time, and he didn’t look well while he was.”

“We have to get his story out of him. All of it.”

“Not now!” Greg protested.

John had just been shot for Pete’s sake. Sherlock had never been very good with assessing a witness’ health, mental or physical, but this was a new low. Sherlock growled at the rebuttal, but didn’t insist.

“Give me your laptop, I’ll do some research in the meanwhile.”

Greg didn’t hesitate. If anyone could help John, it was Sherlock, so he handed over his old laptop, not bothering to give him the password. He knew better.

 

He must have fallen asleep, lulled by his wolf’s slow steady breaths and warm fur. It had been just over two hours since he’d left Sherlock to his research judging by the clock on the mantelpiece, an ugly thing his ex wife had left behind but that he’d come to like as a companion of misfortune. Sherlock was still typing away, pausing as he read, typing some more, the cycle rep aging itself like a well oiled machine. He didn’t even react when Greg stood and stretched. He checked how John was doing, but there was no notable change. He could do with some tea though.

“Tea?” he asked, unsure how to interpret Sherlock’s answering grunt.

He made him a cup anyway, with milk and sugar because he could use the extra calories. He chuckled at the unexpected domesticity. He never thought he’d be having Sherlock over and that he’d be behaving himself. If Mycroft was spying on them, he must have the wrong idea entirely.

Sherlock did, in fact, want tea. He snatched the cup right out of his hand and downed half of it like a barbarian even though it was scalding hot. Greg sat to enjoy his and was greeted by a whine. John was blinking sleep out of his blue eyes, his tongue lazily lolling out.

“Tea? I can go make you a bowl if you want?”

The wolf pivoted instead towards him and lapped the hot beverage right out of his cup.

“And I thought Sherlock was the rude one,” he muttered.

“John,” Sherlock said, making the wolf’s whole body tense up.

“Sherlock!” Greg admonished. “He doesn’t know you know.”

“Well, now he does. Can we get on with it or do we really have to waste time with idle chit-chat? It’s not like every heartbeat counts,” Sherlock finished snidely.

Damn him. Greg hated that he was always right. Why did he even bother trying to argue with him? He stopped trying to stay in between him and Sherlock. The man was stubborn enough to just push him out of the way.

“John,” Sherlock said, addressing the wolf in a strangely formal way that had John snap his head up towards the consulting detective, ramrod straight and still, looking every bit the soldier standing at attention and awaiting orders.

“Do you think you can transform? I need more data, specifically on the day you were changed into a wolf for the first time.”

The wolf shifted again, closed his eyes and then bobbed his head in that slow up and down movement. 

“Are you sure? It might affect the wound and cause you more pain,” Greg warned.

John looked at him, his sea-blue eyes so expressive as to be unnerving, but he could read the determination there, plain as day. One thing he knew through wolf-John was that he was as stubborn as a rock.

“Alright, you’re best judge.”

The wolf shape began to shift, grow, smoothen into pale expanses of skin. Greg belatedly pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa to throw it over John’s naked form, grimacing in sympathy when the bandage ripped free and fell to the floor. The stitches seemed to hold however, the bullet wound itself too small to be impacted by the stretch of muscles or bone as they shifted.

Sherlock nodded as if confirming something by seeing him in human form.

“You disappeared sometime between the 9th and 22nd of february 2006 while you were on leave. What happened?”

“Visited Koriko’s mother on my leave. Was one of my men, pushed me out of the way of a bullet,” John’s voice was gruff from disuse, so he paused to sip some water from the glass Greg handed him, before hurriedly continuing. “Blamed me for not saving him, letting him die… She did something, drugged me, took my dogtags and next thing I know, I’m a fucking wolf. In the middle of London. She’s… a sort of witch I think.” John grunted, sweat dripping down his face. “Voodoo or something like that. I never believed Koriko when he talked about it, thought it was folklore, you know, just stories to scare us...”

Then, just like the last time, he suddenly folded in two and shifted back into a wolf, except this time he was panting and whining, licking at his wound.

Greg shushed him and pushed his large nose out of the way so he could clean the wound and dress it again. Confident it would hold for the night, he petted him back to sleep.

After a while, he noticed Sherlock looking at him strangely.

“What?” 

“You know that’s a man, right? It’s not really a dog, or a giant wolf as the case may be.”

Greg shrugged.

“He’s been alone long enough,” is all he said, but he enjoyed the contact and company as much as John seemed to, if not more. 

But John was admittedly a hostage of his condition. If he had not been cursed, would there ever have been a situation where he and John would have met? Where John would have agreed to come live with him? Would he even have wanted a roommate for that matter? 

Doubtful.

Which would have been a shame since he was so much better for having John in his life. Greg worried his bottom lip. What if John left as soon as Sherlock uncursed him? Because if anyone could, it would be Sherlock. Or worse: what if he couldn't stand living with human-John? He would have done the right thing by helping him, but he would lose his only companion in the process. It was a moot point anyway, because Greg couldn't very well  _ not _ do the right thing and wish him to remain cursed. If he was that desperate, he might as well go to an animal shelter and adopt all the dogs. Well… he might very well do that actually, now that he thought about it. He enjoyed having a canine companion on those rare occasions John went out of his way to act like a real dog.

“Stop thinking so loudly. It's distracting.”

Greg rolled his eyes at Sherlock. How his thoughts could be loud when Sherlock was the one clacking away on his keyboard like a tap dancer on steroids was anyone's guess. It's only by next morning he realizes that the tap tap tap lulled him to sleep, when he wakes up on the couch with a crick in his neck and Sherlock staring unblinkingly at the screen of his phone. His laptop's batteries must have died hours ago, no doubt.

 

After a few days, once John was strong enough to walk around without whining pitifully every few steps, they visited Koriko's last place of residence where he lived with his mother. John didn't remember the way but it was easy enough for Sherlock to find. Unfortunately, he also found out Koriko's mother had died a couple of years back and that the rickety old house just outside of London has remained empty ever since. Greg didn't even know what they came all the way out here for, but it wouldn't be the first time he blindly followed Sherlock's lead. Hopefully, he'd solve this voodoo mess the same way he solved murders.

Sherlock had already picked the ancient lock and pushed the door open. Greg wasn't prone to flights of fantasy, but he'd never heard a door creak in such an ominous way before, and the dark entrance looked like the mouth of some evil creature about to swallow him whole.

John seemed reluctant too, his head bowed, but it was probably because of his memories of the place. Greg petted his fur as he walked close to him.

“It'll be fine,” he said, although he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or John.

His wolf slunk past him but flinched back with a yelp as soon as his nose reached the doorway. Greg immediately checked on him, finding him only a bit dazed. Sherlock had gone in without trouble however and he worried for the consulting idiot who never waited for his backup to back him up.

“Sherlock!” he hollered towards the entrance.

Had the house eaten him? If werewolves were a thing, he wasn't going to be blind to men-eating houses.

“What?” Sherlock snapped as his head reappeared from the inside gloom.

“I think John can't go in.”

Sherlock glanced at the wolf who was now rubbing his muzzle with one of his large paws.

“I see. I read something about that… yes… should be wood… didn't expect it to still be working… aha!”

Sherlock stopped his unintelligible mutterings and weird shuffle-dance on the house porch when he plucked something hanging from one of the rafters nears the front door. It didn't look like much: twigs tied together with yarn if he had to guess. Sherlock dropped it on the ground and stepped on it until it was a little pile of nothing that he kicked away from the porch.

“That should do it,” Sherlock said confidently.

“Are you sure? It sounded painful when John tried to walk in the first time.”

“As sure as a web page's content.”

Greg scowled. That sounded like a resounding no.

“It's your call,” Greg told John with a shrug. “I'll try first if you want.”

He couldn't do much else for him. He actually felt utterly useless in this endeavour, and suspected Sherlock had only brought him along on the off chance he needed to flash his badge for trespassing or something. The doorway still looked like a malevolent mouth to the pits of hell but he walked right through it so as to reassure John.

“See. It's fine. Well… not fine, exactly. It kinda stinks in here.”

The wolf huffed and slowly walked back to the doorway, lifting a paw to the entrance. Greg guessed he didn't want to receive another shock to the nose if he could help it. The paw passed the threshold without problem and soon, the whole wolf was through. Greg could swear he'd heard Sherlock mumble he hadn't thought it would  _ really _ work. Greg was so going to find a reason to do a drugs bust at his place again very soon and make sure to invite Sally and Anderson to “help”.

The abandoned house was dark. It's only when he stubbed his toe on a wonky floorboard that he realized he should have brought torchlights.

Sherlock somehow navigated without walking into walls, the wanker, and he supposed John could see in the dark, which was kind of cool and something he might miss if they made him human again. Greg was just kicking dust around. He didn't even know what they were looking for. Maybe Sherlock did and even that was a stretch.

It was John who found it in the end. A construction very similar to the twig pile that had been hanged in the entrance. When they took it outside for a better view, the thing was much larger and the off-white things were  _ not _ made of wood but teeny tiny bones. Not human, thank God. Canine according to Sherlock and for someone who knew so little about dogs before meeting John, he sure seemed confident of this claim. He must have done a ton of reading up on voodoo and dogs while they waited for John to recover. The

… thing, whatever it was, also has golden locks weaved around it, and metal peaking out here and there. To be honest, it looked both innocuous and terrifying. He wondered if Sherlock was going to step in this one too.

“Best way would be to find another witch to undo this juju,” the consulting sorcerer explained. “But it's not like they’re in the phonebook, and chances are they'd refuse to help us. It's bad form, from what I read.”

After debating whether to throw it in a fire or have it exorcised by a Catholic priest, they decided to simply unwrap the thing a little at a time. Literally unravelling the juju, while keeping an eye on John. The process didn’t seem to affect John at all. He was still a wolf, sitting patiently on his haunches while he stared at them unblinkingly. At least, he wasn't suffering from the dismantling, but maybe they were making the curse permanent… they were way out of their depth. When Sherlock was finished, all he had left in his hands were military dogtags.

He cocked his head at John.

“Maybe if you try shifting yourself?”

John did on the spot. Did neither of them care about their surroundings at all? Greg cursed when John was already half transformed and belatedly wrapped his overcoat around him. He glanced around, but the area was deserted. Letting out a breath, he enquired after John.

“It’s different. I didn’t have to fight it. I don’t… I don’t feel it coming back, pushing me back in the wolf.”

Sherlock clapped his hands in satisfaction, the dogtags jingling from his long fingers.

“Can I?” John asked, extending a hand towards them.

Sherlock hesitated, but gave them back, staring intently. Greg held his breath once more, but nothing happened.

“So it's really over?” John asked, echoing his own thoughts.

“Can you still become a wolf?” Sherlock countered.

John blinked. His dogtags had disappeared in the sleeves of his overcoat which was much too big on him.

“I don’t know. I’ve always had to. I never wanted to before. Still don’t, to be honest.”

Sherlock hummed.

“You’re not going to experiment on him,” Greg warned.

“Not now, of course. I’m not an idiot. He needs to rest first for the results to be conclusive.”

John laughed, surprising them both.

“Sorry, it’s just… You’re taking it so well, and…  Well, thank you, the both of you. If you hadn’t been there, I would still-”

Greg patted his back, feeling a bit too choked up to speak right now, not that he'd admit it to anyone.

“If I can repay you through experiments, that’s okay by me,” John added, to Sherlock's delight. Poor bloke had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into. Then, he turned towards him. “I don’t even know how to repay  _ you _ .”

“It’s my job. You don’t need to repay me.”

John’s smile told him that was not an acceptable answer, but he shrugged it off and noticed John shiver. For someone who had gotten used to a nice fur coat, he was technically starkers now.

“Right,” Greg said. “Let’s get you back home.”

John bit his bottom lip, looking a bit lost but he followed them to his car and growled at Sherlock when he tried stealing his seat on the passenger side before apologizing profusely.

“Hey,” Greg said. “If growling works on Sherlock, I might have to give it a try too.”

John gave him that shy some again and relaxed. Okay, this might just work out okay in the end… which is his place, him and John… and Sherlock.

“Why are you still here again?” Greg asked him from the kitchen.

He was making more food than he had ever had to before and he didn't even mind.

“I need to supervise the subject to collect any new data.”

“That'll be me,” John said as he pushed passed Sherlock. “Can I help you with dinner? Sherlock said he wants to measure me. Every part of me. And I'll do  _ anything _ to get out of that. You sure he's not some kind of perv?”

Greg hadn't laughed that hard in years. Yep. Everything was going to be fine.


	5. All That Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This chapter was all written out and only needed editing, but then I got attacked right outside my own home and I've been all out of sorts since. So I'm moving far far away so that I never have to deal with moronic drugdealers on my doorstep ever again, but it's taking time out of my writing until I'm settled again.

Life went back to normal after that day, or as normal as they could be with two guests in his home. One who was more than welcome to stay and the other he couldn't keep out, no matter how hard he tried.

In any case, Greg had to return to work, which meant long days away from home and he couldn't very well bring human-John along, even if he put him on a leash. Actually, that would just make things weirder, and John had burned the leash to ashes over the stove anyway.

So maybe it was a good thing Sherlock was there to keep John company, even if it was to do strange experiments on him. 

So far, John said he couldn't transform back into a wolf, even once he was completely healed from the bullet wound, but Sherlock was being pig-headed about it and accused John of not trying hard enough.

“Fine. I don't  _ want _ to, and if you can't understand that… Well, actually, I'm not surprised you can't.”

Greg held his breath. John had a point, but he didn't know Sherlock enough to see the flash of hurt crossing his face before it was quickly smoothed out into its usual bored expression.

“You said you'd let me experiment, and this is part of the experiment. You retain some “wolfish” attributes, so to speak: accrued sense of hearing and smell, night vision, accrued speed and your teeth are notably sharper than they had been. Why do you think I went through all the trouble of stealing your dental records? You're welcome by the way. That would have been a problem in the long run.” 

John put a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horror.

“Oh, it's fine. Everyone is too blind to notice such details, and that is actually a change in your favour since you prefer your meat rare now. It would have been something of an ordeal eating that with your dull human teeth.”

John didn't say a word as he ran out to the bathroom.

“I wonder if he's always been this emotional,” Sherlock said with a thoughtful tilt of his head.

“Alright, that's enough for today, Dr Frankenstein. You can't push him around like that. If you really can't figure it out for yourself, John is probably afraid that if he succeeds in changing into a wolf, he’ll be stuck as in that form again, and maybe for good this time.”

Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgement, then smoothly slipped out of the door, as if that had been his intention all along. With any luck, he realized he was being a bit of a bully with John. Maybe. Greg shrugged and knocked on the bathroom door.

“John? Sherlock left in case you want to come out.” Silence. “I don't think he'll be back anytime soon.”

The lock turned and the door latch opened, but only a fraction. John didn't come out.

“John?”

A gentle nudge got the door open wide enough for him to see John just standing there in front of the door, head bowed. He'd half expected to see him peering into the mirror and poking at his teeth so he wasn't sure how to handle this. In doubt, he always went for the obvious.

“Hey. You alright there?” 

“I don't know,” John whispered. “I hadn't realized I had changed that much, but it's true.”

“Change isn't always a bad thing. Quite the opposite, if you ask me. So you can hear a fart a mile away and read in the dark. Big deal. It'll save on the electricity bill.”

John snorted. Progress.

“Most people would sell their mothers to have your superpowers, although I suppose being able to  _ smell _ that fart from a mile away isn't all that appealing.”

John finally looked up at him instead of glaring daggers at his floorboards.

“But I'm not  _ normal _ .”

“I have it on good authority that normal is boring.”

“Sherlock,” John huffed. “He has a way of getting under my skin. I'm sorry I just snapped. I should probably apologize to him.”

“Nah. Let him try it out for once or he'll never learn. He was way out of line anyway.”

“You make him sound like a puppy.”

Greg laughed. That was actually the most apt description he'd ever heard of Sherlock: impatient, single-minded, unaware of personal space or private property... 

John seemed more like himself after their little chat, although he wouldn't smile quite as often or quite as widely as he used to. If Sherlock didn't apologize soon, and make it sound good, or at least sincere, Greg was going to kick him off every single one of his crime scenes for the foreseeable future. And if his cold cases piled up on his desk… well, he'd just have to deal with the fact that he relied on Sherlock more than he liked to admit.

One thing that hadn't changed since he'd taken John in was that he would sometimes find him.. curled up in bed next to him. Greg had given him the guest room, so he wasn't sure if this was some remnant of the wolf or if John was just lonely and needed some human contact. The next morning wasn't awkward, but they didn't talk about it either. What was there to say, anyway? Besides, Greg didn't mind. He missed petting his wolf, if he had to be honest, but even he realised it would be weird to keep up that particular habit.

 

The peace and quiet only lasted a few days before Sherlock reappeared in their living room. His doors and windows looked whole and unharmed, so Greg didn't say anything and made tea for three. As soon as John walked out of the bedroom to join them, Sherlock jumped to his feet and thrust a file at him. Poor Sherlock looked so stiff and awkward, Greg had to hide his grin behind his cup.

“I apologize, John. I shouldn't have treated you like my usual experiment subjects. You are, after all, alive, and I should have taken your…  _ feelings _ into account.”

Greg was impressed. It was a bit too formal an apology, the likes of which came once in a lifetime with Sherlock, but he wondered if it would be enough for John who didn't know him as well. His roommate's blank expression cracked and he started laughing. Giggling, actually. It was cute.

“Okay, that's fine. But don't push. When I say no, it's no. Get it?”

Sherlock nodded emphatically, his riot of curls bobbing around him in agreement.

“What's this then?” John asked as he held up the file.

“My apology… gift? I read it's supposed to be flowers or chocolates but I didn't think you'd like either.”

Greg snorted. Sherlock must have read advice in the wrong section of “how to be a normal human being” again. He had fond memories of the time he had brought a neon pink vibrator to Dimmock's stag night. Poor guy had blushed crimson and couldn't look anyone in the eye until he was well and truly drunk.

John opened the envelope and took out a stack of official looking documents. His eyes growing wide as he flipped through them in silence. Greg glanced at Sherlock's smug expression, and gave in to the urge to know what was going on by standing next to John and glancing over his shoulder.

“You just gave me my life back,” John said. “Just like that? How?”

“Mycroft,” Greg muttered.

That was cheating. There was no way Greg could compete with such a gift when he was only a measly copper.

“My brother,” Sherlock clarified. “He claims to occupy a minor position in the government.”

“He doesn't?” John asked, looking more bewildered by the second.

“No. He  _ is _ the British Government. So I can't really take credit for all that paperwork.”

“You told him about John?” Greg hissed, wondering how far they could run before the elder Holmes caught up to them.

“Of course not.  _ I'm _ not an idiot. I told him he was one of my homeless network who had fallen on hard times, but wanted to “better” himself. Mycroft bought it hook, line and sinker. If you ever meet him, don't be offended if he thinks you were alcoholic. He can be rather simple-minded when he wants to.”

Simple-minded is the last term he would have used to describe Mycroft, but Greg was too relieved to learn no one was after John. It did make a believable story after all. More believable than the soldier being cursed into a wolf form by a voodoo witch at any rate.

Greg didn't want to ask about the alcohol though. Probably some family history he would learn about at a better time. For now, he still had some suspicions and decided to grill Sherlock since he had him on hand for once.

“And your brother did that for free, did he?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Mycroft doesn't do anything for free. He's a consummate politician.”

“But-” John said.

“But it's nothing I can't afford. Just a case involving some lost plans of some sort. I'll probably solve it under an hour. Mycroft is simply too lazy to do any legwork.”

Sherlock seemed sincere enough, so Greg let him be, even if he knew the consulting detective already had the maniac bomber to deal with. Sherlock had never bitten off more than he could chew before, but Greg made a mental note to be on the lookout for drugs, just in case.

His bigger worry for now was what John would do now that he was free to do  _ anything _ . He could return to the army, take up a job as a doctor, rent a place of his own… He wasn't dependent on him anymore and that scared him most of all, because if he so chose, John could simply walk out of his life and never look back.

It would be the easiest way for him to forget he'd been a wolf for three long and lonely years.

However, John stayed. Just like that. He did start working as a GP in a small clinic, socializing with his colleagues, making new friends and even did the shopping and chores around the house, but Greg drew the line when he offered to pay rent.

“You're already paying for all the food, and making dinner, and stitching me up when Sherlock gets me in trouble. I think I should be the one paying you a salary for taking such good care of me, to be honest.”

“What? Like a nanny?” John laughed.

No. Definitely not a nanny. John was more like the dream-flatmate. The perfect companion. Not that he'd say as much, so he changed the subject.

“What are you doing to yourself anyway?”

Because John currently looked like a mad scientist experimenting on himself.

“I'm trying to determine whether I'm infectious or not. I'm being careful at the clinic. I keep my distance and wear double gloves, but imagine if I accidentally turn someone into a werewolf through spit, sweat, blood, or hell, just looking at them funny for all I know.”

“You think it's possible?”

Greg hadn't even considered the possibility. It had been a curse, and they had broken the curse. He had honestly thought this was over and done with, but then again, John was still a bit wolfish… Damnit. He  _ was _ an idiot.

“I honestly don't know. Sherlock doesn't know. We don't even know what to look for. Parts of me remain half-wolf but nothing seems to appear at a medical level. All tests seem to point out I'm human and only human, but I know I'm not…”

Greg mulled it over for a bit. The risk of infecting anyone seemed to weigh on John, but if both John, a real doctor,  _ and _ Sherlock, a bloody mad scientist, hadn't found anything, it was most likely because there was nothing to find.

Acting on impulse, Greg tilted John's chin up and kissed him full on the lips, making sure to put a bit of tongue in before John could gather his wits and react. And react he did. With a snarl, John pushed him back with such force that Greg fell back on his arse. He hadn't realised John was stronger than average too. A shame, because it meant he hadn't been able to enjoy that kiss longer. It was probably the only one he'd get from him and so, he only felt the tiniest bit guilty for having stolen it.

“Are you mad? That was completely and utterly foolish. Did you not listen to a word I said?” John barked as he tried to wipe Greg's lips clean with his sleeve.

Greg was having none of it. He had quite enjoyed the taste of John Watson, thank you very much, and would like to enjoy it for as long as possible.

“I'm just proving a point. Worrywart.”

John huffed and gave up his feeble attempt to save him from lycanthropy, then stood and gave him a hand up, but he was still looking as worried and angry as before.

“And I don't feel the slightest urge to howl at the moon or lick my balls.”

“I never did that!’

“Hey. I'm not judging,” Greg said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You're impossible. Don't come complaining to me when you have fleas and need your ears scratched. You'll only have yourself to blame. You're worse than Sherlock and I thought  _ he _ was insane. What if-”

“I'm  _ fine, _ ” Greg interrupted him. “More than fine, actually.”

Because John hadn't pushed him back immediately. For the tiniest fragment of a second, John had given in to the kiss, had been kissing him back. He wasn't even angry about the kiss, only the risk of infection. Greg took a step forward, smirking when John blushed but stood his ground.

“We should wait…” he said uncertainly.

“I'm fine. It's fine, John.” He was inches from him now and could see his shallow breaths and dilated pupils. “Unless you tell me you don't want me, and for a better reason than that you have cooties…”

Greg trailed off, waiting. All John had to say was no and he'd back off. He counted to ten as he held his breath to give John time, but he'd only made it to three when John tugged on his tie to bring him to eye level.

Those eyes… 

A shiver ran through Greg at the predatory gleam he saw there, right before John pounced on him. It was his turn to be momentarily stunned and John took full advantage of it to push him back and down into the sofa to straddle him. It was a side of John he'd never seen before. So confident, and dominant. Not that he was complaining, but he wondered if it was his wolf making a reappearance. After that last coherent thought, the rest of the night was a jumble of sensations and pleasure he'd never experienced so thoroughly before.

 

John nudged him awake the next morning, his kisses like soft echoes of the previous night.

“Greg, your phone.”

Greg rolled over, ignoring his ringing phone to look over John, still naked in his bed.

“They'll call back.”

“I think they already did. Twice.”

The ringing stopped.

“Problem solved,” Greg mumbled.

“No wonder the crime rate in London keeps going up.”

Greg chuckled and swung his legs to the side of the bed. He'd rather stay here, preferably with John, but he knew it wouldn't be long before the ringtone made itself known again.

“How are you feeling?” John asked as he wrapped his dressing gown around himself.

“Are you asking if I'm feeling a bit wolfish today? Or just generally sore from other activities?”

John's cheeks burned pink.

“Both?”

“Fine on both scores. Never imagined you'd be so…” Greg scrolled through his mental thesaurus to find a word his now liver would find offensive. “Passionate.”

“Three years, Greg.”

Enough said. John had actually shown a great deal of self-control, all things considered. He was glad things had not become awkward between them. If anything, it had quite the opposite effect, obliterating what little reserve they'd kept towards one another. Greg couldn't stop grinning. Except when his phone rang again.

“Lestrade,” he said, holding back a sigh.

“Get down here,” Sally snapped. “The freak is taking over the Yard and he's driving everyone bonkers!”

“Another pip?” Greg asked.

“What else?” she muttered and hung up.

He should stop for her favourite coffee on his way there or he was going to have to deal with her foul mood all day.

“I have to go,” Greg told John regretfully. 

He’d hoped they would at least have time for breakfast together, but duty called.

“Be safe,” John replied with a kiss, sweet and innocent, before slapping his backside with a cheeky grin.

Greg snorted, but he doubted running around with Sherlock after a murderous bomber could be considered safe, even if he wore a full kevlar armor from head to toe. He wouldn't lie though, so he just smiled.

Of course, Sherlock had to be a prat when he arrived at the Yard, late admittedly. He then commented loudly that he'd had sex the previous night, which meant Sally harassed him all morning to know who was the lucky lady. She, in turn, got annoyed whenever Sherlock sniggered at her question, and even Greg had to admit she could have made some deductions about that. In the end, they got very little work done that day and the clock was ticking. When he got back home, he only had enough strength to walk to his bed and fall face first to catch a few hours sleep, even though he felt guilty for doing so, knowing Sherlock would be up all night trying to find this arch-enemy of his.

“You're working crazy hours,” John commented the next morning, pushing breakfast his way that contained enough calories to take him through the whole day.

“It's the bomber,” Greg explained. “Frankly, I'm way out of my depth. Sherlock seems fascinated by the bloke. I've never seen him like that, and if I didn't know better, I'd think he's in love.”

“How do you know he's not? 

“Sherlock doesn't do sentiment, or relationships. He claims love is a chemical defect,” Greg explained with an eye roll. “I think he's more interested in the fact he's found someone like him. Can you imagine a criminal-Sherlock?”

John's eyes grew wide.

“God, no!”

“And that's what we're dealing with right now… ”

“Be careful,” John repeated when he left.

Greg did his best to seem confident, but to be honest, he'd never been so terrified in his life, not even when he thought an oversized wolf was about to eat him. There was just something so malevolent about this Moriarty character… He was like a real life cackling villain, shrouded in mystery, bent on destruction and completely insane. Greg had a bad feeling about the whole thing, and Sherlock's apparent cluelessness about his mysterious nemesis was not helping him deal with all the stress.

 

They diffused another bomb that day. Greg knew he should feel happy about it, but he just felt drained. How Sherlock thrived on such cases, he'd never understand. The superintendent was happy for once, and he clapped him on the back with some tart comment as he made his way out of the Yard. Wanker.

Greg walked to his car, keys in hand, when something stung him. He slumped to the ground almost immediately, too exhausted to fight the numbness taking over his body. His last thoughts was that it wasn't the season for bees, that he hadn't even known he was allergic to bees and that he wished John was there because he'd know what to do… but then he realized he was just being kidnapped when a couple of thugs picked him up yo stuff him in a car. It was a first, despite his line of work. He didn't have much say in the matter anyway, and decided he might as well get a kip while he could. 

He woke up in a swimming pool, of all the ridiculous places, with an Irish bloke strapping him into a Semtex vest. Greg knew immediately who this was exactly: Sherlock's nemesis. The psychopath blowing up people all over town. Moriarty, as he introduced himself, and was he really expecting him to shake that hand? Really? Greg glared with all his might, which only earned him a bop on the nose.

“You, my dear, are the last pip, so you can just sit there and look pretty. You being Sherlock's heart, he will come to the rescue, don't you worry.”

He bopped him on the nose again, seeming to enjoy the flinch he got in response every time.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that,” Greg said, trying to keep a brave front despite the ridiculous amount of explosives strapped to his soft abdomen. 

For the same reason, he didn't even try to fight back. He knew there were a lot of armed men around to stop him if he stepped out of line. He didn't even believe anyone would come for him. Except for John, who only knew how to love so completely and fiercely that he already  held his heart. But how could he help him? He might be able to convince Sherlock to look for him, but he wouldn't hold his breath. All he could do was hope and try to gain some time before he was blown up to bits.

“And what can you possibly do, Detective Inspector? Trussed up as you are and at my mercy?”

“Me? Nothing, obviously,” he smirked.

Moriarty backhanded him for his trouble. He was a lot stronger than he looked. A trickle of blood dropped down his chin and he licked his split lip, but the damage was done. 

“I’m not Sherlock’s heart. He doesn’t even believe in sentiments, let alone love. He'd run the other way if he thought I had afflicted him with such a defect. You're his fan. Surely you know that?”

Men screamed on the other side of the door, followed by several shots, then silence. Greg’s heart beat faster. He knew it was John. He could feel it in his bones.

Moriarty froze, but Greg was quite at ease now that the cavalry had actually arrived, despite all odds, and right on time too. Except when the psychopath stalked up to him to scream in his face. It was as bad as staring into the barrel of a gun.

“What is that? What did you DO!”

“Me? Nothing. Like you said, I'm all trussed up and helpless here, but you really shouldn’t have abducted me. The owner of  _ my _ heart has a bit of a temper.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened at the barely veiled threat and he whirled around to bark at his last minions who had exited just a few minutes ago.

“Moran! Perez! Sullivan!”

No answer. Moriarty slammed shut the door to their little locker room, but that wasn't going to save him. On cue, it was kicked open not even a minute later and in stepped a gloriously naked man, his mouth coated in blood. Greg realized what that meant, why the men had been screaming… The shots he had heard hadn't come from John after all.

“Greg? You okay?” John asked, ignoring the madman in the room for now.

Greg nodded. He had so many questions to ask, but none he could voice out loud in front of a witness.

“What took you so long?”

“Stupid Semtex smell threw me off my trail, but I got a whiff of your blood,” John explained and wiped his thumb against his lip. “Is this the nutter who's been blowing people up.”

“The one and only,” Greg replied.

“Who are you?” Moriarty hissed. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Late. He likes making an entrance. Probably curling his hair or something, but I'm sure he’ll be disappointed to have missed you,” John said in a mild tone, just before he shifted into the familiar golden wolf to rip his throat out. 

There were no witnesses left after all.

Greg would never forget the disturbing look of surprise on Moriarty's face. He wasn't sorry for the bloke. Not one bit. He should probably scold John for putting himself in danger and leaving him a crime scene he couldn't possibly explain to the Superintendent, but all he felt right then was gratefulness. John would always be there for him, and so would he, if it came to that. But more than that, love, because John had confronted his worse fear and taken a huge risk by turning back into a wolf. And all that just for him.

A few minutes later, Greg was Semtex free and he called the bomb squad. He wouldn't be allowed on the scene for a good few hours, and the dead bodies weren't going anywhere.

“Come on, John. Let's go home.”

 


End file.
